Minor Threat
by godcalldinsick
Summary: The McQuaid Brothers (yes, its another one of THOSE) infiltrate a school where not all is what it seems.
1. In Which Marty Normick Meets His End

**A/N:** A kind of plot you probably wouldn't be expecting to see. I apologize for my use of language, I know it can be a bit much at times. Sometimes I lay it on kind of thick, but words are meant to be used and not meant to be used sparingly! Or maybe I read _Lolita_ too many times. Eh, either way. 21 Jump Street fans, I hope you like. Please review if you're interested/want more. Kind of dark, I know. But MCQUAID!

**Straight Edge (In Your Face)**

**Chapter One**

* * *

There were times when Little Officer of the Law Tom Hanson did not feel so much like an officer of the law. Sitting with his elbow pressed hard against a graffiti-infested desk, his chin resting on the palm of his hand, his eyes fighting sleep, he realized that this was one of those times. He jiggled his leg to stay awake, trying to tune in to the teacher's monotone voice dripping slow words about the quadratic formula. His partner, Doug Penhall, snored softly at the desk behind him. Rain pelted harshly against the roof of the school; it was a grotesque day.

Mr. Kingston threatened to give them a pop quiz if they didn't wake up. His nasally voice, a single note, an everlasting wheeze, did little to motivate the kids to open their eyes. Tom allowed his lids to slide down, sighed against his hand, curtained his sin with his long hair hanging over his face. Stupid high school.

It felt like a second before Doug was poking him between his shoulder blades, urging him awake. He mumbled profanity under his breath, asked his partner "what?", because it was too early in the morning for this.

"The bell rang, Tommy," Doug informed him. "Minutes ago. You missed a pop quiz."

"Good. I'm staying in character," Tom grumbled, before yawning into his shirtsleeve. His arm had fallen asleep and he felt the pins and needles and missed the feeling of numbness. "Did you miss it, too?"

"Nah, I took it." At his partner's bewildered expression, Doug added, "It was a lengthy problem, so I wrote a short story about a kid who didn't like quadratic equations."

"What happened to him?"

"For every day they forced him to do math, he refused to eat. So he just died of starvation."

"Sounds like the next great American novel to me." Tom watched as Doug nodded his head eagerly, his mouth spread into a large, goofy grin. Tom rolled his eyes, slapped his hand on his friend's back and pushed him in the direction of the door. "C'mon, Lord Dougron, it's time to stuff our mouths full o' the nauseating substance known as school food."

_Lord Byron was British_, Tom chided himself. _Nonsensical jokes aren't even witty._

But Doug didn't catch it, and Tom knew that even if he had, he wouldn't say anything, being too amused by being called Lord Dougron to care about the contradiction of nations.

They ran into Joe Vega in the hallway, slammed him against a rusty, red locker. His face twisted in feigned pain and Dougie smiled maliciously as Tommy flicked his fingers against the boy's head.

"Where is it?" Tommy asked, his voice sing-song. Kids stood at an uncomfortable distance, their eyes eagerly soaking in the scene. A few murmured the fight chant, bobbing their fists in their air, hungry for some excitement. Thunder boomed outside. Water streamed down the windows, distorting the view of the school parking lot. Tom thought about how nice it would be to drive away from this place at the end of the day, the fidgety new drivers awkward in their first rain.

"I don't have it," Joe snarled, shoving against Doug as hard as he could and wrenching himself away from the two. They were trouble, he knew. He was the king before these two transferred in, and now he was merely the court jest. He was a burly kid, Joe Vega was, easily as big as Doug McQuaid, and just as strong. But he cowered when faced with competition.

"Sure you don't," Doug snorted, and his brother smirked, leaning into his side, his arms crossed. They didn't look like brothers at all. Tommy was scrawny and childish under his dorag, looked like the kind of kid that helped unload their mom's dishwasher. Doug looked like a construction worker, big muscles and broad chest, the one forced by physique to shovel the snow at the end of the driveway in winter. But here they were, juvenile delinquents, and always a step above everyone else. Just a little tougher and just little stronger, and strangely, always a little smarter.

Of course, Tommy was the cold-blooded killer. Everyone knew that. So there he was, cute as a bug, swamped in his badass torn denim, little and lithe, causing Joe's hands to shake with fear.

"Swirly," the smaller brother said decisively.

"In your dreams, McQuaid," Joe snapped, unable to keep the tremble out of his voice.

"Confucius say our dreams come true if you don't hand it over," Doug said, his voice lilting, a happy melody to a sad tune.

But Jimmy came, and Joe knew he was saved for at least another hour. Best friends since they were four, Jimmy and Joe always had eachother's backs. Even when faced with the brothers McQuaid.

"Beat it," Jimmy growled, standing his ground by his friend's side and the voices of the onlookers grew, because two on two was even more fun than two on one.

"_Fight! Fight! Fight_!"

A crescendo of teenaged angst, someone had to bleed to quench their thirst for violence. Half of them hoped that little Tommy McQuaid would pull out a gun, his adorable face tight with concentration as he aimed the barrel at his opponents. Such fun, they thought, to go to school with lowlifes.

Dougie's large fist clenched as he grabbed the collar of Jimmy's shirt, and his knuckles were bone white pressed against the boy's cheek.

Tommy walked slowly, deliberately, towards Joe, his large brown eyes dancing with mischief and impending fun. Joe was reminded of his five-year-old brother, and how he had flung peas at the dinner table the night before. Twinkling eyes, happy giggles.

"Stop. Right. There."

Dougie dropped Jimmy nonchalantly to the floor. Tommy halted his steps, his eyes still doing ballet, his lips twitching upwards, still focused completely on young Joe. Principal Polanski did not look amused.

"To lunch. All of you. If this happens again, the four of you are suspended." The older man turned to the surveyors of the scene, growing more irritated by the second. "Well?" he demanded. "What are you still doing here? Go to lunch or go home hungry!"

The hallway emptied as quickly as it had filled. Joe and Jimmy dashed off, loudly claiming that they were so hungry, their stomachs were eating themselves. Tommy and Dougie McQuaid stalked begrudgingly empty-handed to the cafeteria, vowing to throw their half-empty milk cartons in the direction of the faculty table.

Marty Normick stood by his locker, swaying ever so much, eyes still slightly bloodshot from the pot he had smoked a while ago. He reached into his book bag and took out a bottle of Scope, which he swished around in his mouth before swallowing. He sprayed some cologne over his shirt in an attempt to cover the scent, but realized the attempt was futile – it was absorbed in his long blond dreadlocks, which his mother had half-heartedly threatened to hack off this morning. She had then kissed him, her breath heavy with tobacco, her smile fond and loving. She smoked like a chimney. He had been trying to get her to quit since he was twelve. Smoking kills, that's what all the posters had said, and Dad was already dead. He had to take care of Mom.

He sighed, and shut his locker door, wincing at the noise created by slammed metal. He could really use something to eat, and food always tasted better when he was slightly high, anyway. Maybe Cassandra would be eating alone again, as Tiffany was out sick today. He really liked Cassandra.

"Fucking junkie," were the last words he heard and the voice that uttered them was practically inhuman. The crowbar was blunt and painful against his head and he felt his knees bang against the dirty floor of the school hallway. He tried to crawl, but a foot pinned him to the ground, hard and pinching into the small of his back. He felt the crowbar strike him again, and the florescent lights started blotching, black, white, black white, like the spots of a dalmation, cluttering slowly together, black black black – black lab, jaws tight around the neck of the dead duck. And this was asphyxia, the sounds of the rain and thunder beating outside, drowning the grass and the trees and the flowers, flooding the streets in nature's torrent. Marty could feel the rain, dripping down the sides of his face, crimson droplets slowly streaming down his cheek, his chin. The tile was beige, it had been white once years ago, before children had come stomping in with their muddy shoes, but the lockers had always been red. They had been talking about renovating the school for years, repainting, retiling. Now the floor matched the lockers and Marty had saved the school board some trouble.

* * *

**TBC...?**


	2. In Which Hanson and Penhall Bicker

A/N: Sorry it took so long, and it's not that wonderful. I was tired and bored and uninspired, so you'll get your serious plot going on in the next chapter. Thanks to everyone who reviewed. ) You guys are awesome.

* * *

The chapel was a bustle of activity when Tom and Doug stumbled in, their eyes blinking tiredly, their limbs sluggish and unwilling to move. Judy Hoffs, Harry Ioki, and Sal Bonducci were crowded around Judy's desk, all smiling faces and glittering eyes, sharing a laugh over something or other. The desk workers were typing up reports, moving back and forth, back and forth, in a monotonous rhythm around the small area. Captain Adam Fuller stared at them from the threshold of his office, his hard eyes demanding, but holding just a hint of concern. 

Tom sighed, and flopped down into his chair, swinging his legs over one of the arms and shutting his sleepy eyes. He didn't protest when Doug shoved his paperwork, pens, typewriter, and coffee mug onto the floor. He didn't protest when Doug curled up on his desk and shut his eyes. There was no need to protest. When he felt up to it again, he'd make him clean it all up. They'd bicker until Doug obliged, because that was what being partners was about. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered at that moment except for a boy named Marty Normick.

They'd found him after lunch, his head busted open in the hallway, his lips parted slightly as if he had been gasping for breath. His blue eyes peaking out from behind half-closed lids. Girls had screamed, boys had gasped, breathed hard, put their hands over their mouths. Many ran to the bathroom and the sounds of vomiting could be heard for an hour after the initial discovery. Some were late in the registering of the fact that Marty Normick had been brutally murdered in the hallway of their high school, shock overriding the physical reaction to so much spilt blood on dirty tile.

"Hanson, Penhall," Captain Fuller's voice was one of command, and the two groaned like petulant children being woken for school.

"We have no suspects," Doug mumbled against the desk and he shifted to lie on his back, his long legs dangling from either side, his eyes turned to his captain with all the attention he could muster. "All we know is the kid was pounded into the hallway during lunch. It was unexpected and we were trying to get those other kids to give us drugs, but that didn't pan out either."

"Marty was pretty cool," Tom said softly from his chair. "He was in my lit class. Let me cheat off his quizzes. Liked to read and wasn't afraid to share."

"They found an ounce of marijuana in his clothes," Fuller informed them, deliberately ignoring his officer's mention of cheating. "This might be connected to the drug ring you guys are trying to infiltrate."

Tom shook his head, weary. "That's a tight knit circle, Coach, and Marty didn't hang out with that crowd. He was more of a loner. The friendly kind. Besides, marijuana isn't exactly drug ring material. These kid s like their smack."

Judy flounced over, Harry at her heels.

"You guys okay?" she asked, her brown eyes wide with concern. "We heard what went down with that kid."

Doug said, "Yeah, we're fine, Jud" and Tom nodded silently, pulling his legs underneath his chin and hugging them to his chest.

"Jeez, Hanson, way to be reassuring," Harry teased, and Tom offered him a small smile in return.

"So, no suspects," Fuller said, more to himself than to his officers. "You can't think of any enemies Marty might have had?"

"Like I said, he kept to himself," Tom replied. "But when he didn't, he was just this friendly kid." Tom really couldn't think of anyone who would want to hurt Marty Normick. For the most part, he stayed out of the way.

"Maybe whoever did it decided they weren't a fan of those dirty blond dreads of his," Doug commented, illustrating his knack for trying to lighten the mood by saying the wrong thing. Tom, of course, did not react well to this, hitting his partner hard in the side, eliciting a yelp of pain.

"Shut up, _Dougie_," he snapped and Doug bounded up to reciprocate. Fuller quickly placed a hand on the young man's broad chest, holding him back.

"That's enough," he barked. "Why don't you two go home and rest? You can scope out the possible suspects tomorrow at school. Its been a long day and I want you guys back with level heads bright and early in the morning."

_Tomorrow at school rang_ a bell in the memories of the two young officers and they exchanged quick glances before mumbling "oh" and "um" and "about that..." and at their captain's tapping foot and crossed arms and rolling eyes, they rummaged through their pockets to pull out crumpled pieces of paper.

"These have to be signed or we won't be allowed back in school," Tom said sheepishly.

Judy glanced at the notes over Fuller's shoulder, and mock gasped, "My word. FIGHTING? You two? For shame."

"Not only that," Harry chirped. "Belligerent attitudes toward their teachers and distracting classroom behavior! Oh, and Penhall's failing Spanish while Hanson's failing pre-calc."

"How are you failing different subjects? Aren't you in the same classes?" Judy asked.

"I hate Spanish," Penhall grumbled. "And we have different fourth periods."

"Yeah, he's in REMEDIAL English," Tom gloated.

"It's not remedial, it's normal. Just because I'm not in the BRAIN class...besides that, Pre-Calc is the easiest class ever. As long as you try your best, you get credit. How dumb do you have to be to be failing PRE-CALC?"

"Not dumb, just lazy," Tom replied smartly. "Just because I don 't write enthralling freedom fighter stories about Ghandi-like kids protesting the use of quadratic equations doesn't make me any less intelligent than you."

Doug snorted. "A McQuaid in advanced English. Whoever heard of such a thing?"

Tom shrugged. "Placement tests don't lie."

"You were supposed to put C for every answer. We had it PLANNED."

"I'm not my brother's keeper," Tom huffed. "Sometimes maybe I want to be the separate McQuaid. People always look at us and think Tommy and Doug McQuaid. Number 1 and 2. Maybe, just maybe, I want them to see me as Tommy McQuaid...the_ original_."

"Why can't I be number one?" Doug demanded.

"Huh?"

"You just said, and I quote, 'Tommy and Doug McQuaid. Number 1 and 2'. This would imply that you meant Tommy and Doug McQuaid, number 1 and 2,_ respectively_. I'm opposed to you putting yourself first."

"Well, GEE, Dougie-"

"Go home," Fuller finally interjected. "I've heard enough." He scribbled a signature on each note and handed them back to his young officers. "Sleep. School tomorrow. On time. Suspects."

"Yes, sir," the two said in unison, obediently hopping to their feet, gathering their things, and beginning the trek out of the chapel.

Judy and Harry exchanged glances, shifting from foot to foot, listening to the continuing banter as their partners made their way out of their place of business.

"ANYWAY," Doug's voice echoed through the chapel. "I'm obviously number one because I'm bigger and stronger and could squash you like a bug if I ever decided I wanted to be the only child."

"We don't have parents!" Tom's voice reverberated , bouncing off the walls, creating a long-lasting indignance that caused the two remaining officers to engage in an explosion giggles that continued on long after Tom Hanson and Doug Penhall had exited the chapel parking lot.

* * *

TBC... 


	3. In Which Tommy Is Disruptive During 4th ...

A/N: Sorry. It's short and it's been a long time. I'll try to have more out soon. Thanks to everyone who reads. Extra thanks to everyone who reviews. :Hugs:

* * *

The sun scintillated through the dingy windows of the school the very next day. Marty Normick had not yet been dead 24 hours, and for the most part, the teachers rambled on about school as usual. Anyone who wanted to see the guidance counselor was more than welcome to jump out of their seat at any time, but nobody really did. What do guidance counselors know anyway? 

Tom Hanson scribbled his name (Tommy) on his desk. Ran his pencil over it several times, darkening the letters, but it still wasn't enough, so he took out his pocket knife and etched them in. They wouldn't forget Tommy McQuaid at this school, for Tommy McQuaid would forever be immortalized in this desk.

"Mr. McQuaid?" Mrs. Darkbloom was stiff and rigid in her movements, stalking over to her student's desk, her face pinched, her mouth turned downwards in a disapproving frown. Tommy didn't look up. Where Tom would drop the knife immediately, Tommy wouldn't even hear the words fall from the old hag's mouth. "Mr. McQuaid!" Mrs. Darkbloom snapped this time, and half of the class woke up, sitting straight and still in their seats. Tom's toes curled and popped, Tommy's hand continued to move, and their eyes, undeterred, remained on their art. "Oh, for heaven's sake."

Sometimes, it was really hard being two people.

"Tommy McQuaid!" came her final bellow and Tommy finally acknowledged her, bringing the knife to a slow halt, cautiously shutting and pocketing it, and raising his eyes with the kind of unobliging patience only a delinquent could have.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Darkbloom corrected, her eyes narrowed, her arms crossed.

Tommy thought for a moment, gave the slightest of slight nods, and repeated, "Yeah."

"The appropriate word is _yes_, Mr. McQuaid," the exasperated teacher sighed. "Give me the weapon."

"'S not a weapon," Tommy replied, leaning back in his chair. He propped his feet casually on the desk, much to the distaste of the already infuriated instructor. "It's a knife."

"A knife is a weapon, Mr. McQuaid."

"Only if you use it as a weapon. Otherwise it's a tool." Tommy pulled out a stick of gum. It was easier to look and act tough with something rolling around in his mouth.

"No gum in my classroom, Mr. McQuaid. I'll be confiscating that along with your tool."

Tommy snorted. "Mrs. D., I'm flattered. But you're all the way on the other side of the hill."

Uproarious laughter ensued; giggles, chuckles, hearty belly laughs. The sound of students getting a one up on a teacher. Mrs. Darkbloom tried her best to shush them, threatening hours upon hours of detention and Saturday school, her attention taken off of the problem long enough for him to shove the gum in his mouth.

"Spit it out!" she commanded, whirling around. But Tommy just grinned. "How did you even get in this class?"

"I'm a genius," Tommy said matter-of-factly. "That don't mean I'm well-behaved."

"Doesn't!"

Tommy blinked, cocked his head to the side, studied the red-faced woman for moment. "Yeah, like I said. It don't."

At first he was confused. It didn't feel like there was an earthquake, but her entire body was shaking, from her feet to her head and everything in between. She looked as if she were about to explode and this caused the right side of his mouth to rise in a smirk - The Fury of Mrs. Darkbloom. It would be Tommy McQuaid's debut novel. They never thought a delinquent could write a book until he came along.

"Get out of my class." Her voice was low and firm, and Tom Hanson thought for a moment before slowly rising to his feet. Tommy McQuaid thought for a moment before jamming the knife into the desk with a cheeky grin.

"Get out of my class," Tommy mocked, his voice high-pitched, and his head fell to the side of his neck, slack, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Just for a moment, before he straightened, and with a smile, said, "Yeah, yeah, I'm a goin', Mrs. D."

It was more of a strut than a walk as Tommy McQuaid exited the room, slamming the door behind him, gum still in his mouth.

The class was silent for a moment.

"He smoke drugs," Brian Battersby said, his voice tinged with disgust. He shoved his glasses back onto his face with his index finger, shifted in his seat. "How is he in advanced English?"

"He smoke drugs? How are _you_ in advanced English?" Cassandra Epstein spat. Marty Normick had been dead for almost a day. She had eaten lunch alone yesterday.

It only got worse from here.

* * *


	4. Fourth Period Continued!

A/N: Hey guys. Sorry its been so long. I had finals and stuff to attend to. This chapter is quite...awful, so I'm wondering why I continued anyway. I've just had a major block lately and my writing just hasn't been good. I blame school! Or my overly-tired, miniscule mind. Either one. Anyway, enjoy as much as you can. I'd also be more than pleased if you reviewed. It gets the spirits up, donchaknow:hugs:

**Minor Threat**

_Chapter Four: Fourth Period Continued!_

* * *

The florescent lights couldn't bother his eyes if they were pressed against his arms, Doug Penhall had decided. He remembered this position well, because he had never given it up. High school had seen him with his arms on his desk and his head on his arms, his closed eyes hidden from view. He thought when he'd graduated that he'd said goodbye to this juvenile pose, but then there was quite clearly the ACADEMY to take into consideration. And of course, upon his initiation as a full-fledged police officer, he found himself reinstated as a high school student. Thus here he was, back in this all-to-familiar stance, waiting for the bell to ring…or something interesting to happen. Most likely, for the bell to ring. 

"Doug McQuaid," Mr. Puz (it was a funny name, and no student could say it, or even _think_ it, without laughing) said, tensely tapping his yardstick against his calf, glaring not just at the student in question, but at the wide range of students in his fourth period English class. He hated kids, and no one, not even he, knew why he felt the need to have a yardstick. Once, he had chalked it up to a subconscious desire for a defense implement. Other times, he felt it just emphasized his overall authority in the classroom.

Joe Vega had never been scared of Mr. Puz's yardstick, but he knew several kids that had. His best friend, Jimmy, once confided in him that "the Puzstick", as the twosome referred to the teaching instrument, had given him "the shivers". Joe, being a sixteen-year-old boy and still miles away from maturity, had asked his number one comrade if by "the shivers" he had meant something border lining arousal, or one of the many other physical emotions they gained by looking at Cassandra Epstein. Jimmy had not been amused. In fact, that particular jeering remark had earned Joe one of the rare, hurtful blows to the arm that Jimmy so infrequently bestowed upon him.

"Doug McQuaid," Mr. Puz said again with yet a more authoritative voice.

Joe decided, not without first thinking of possible consequences, to help the Puz out in his plight. He had sat in front of Doug McQuaid that afternoon, in hopes that he would have the opportunity to do just this.

"Just this" being the shinning of his most infuriating nemesis.

"Jeez!" the bigger McQuaid exclaimed as he sat up, a most satisfying mixture of pain and fury marring his handsome face. "What'd ya do that for, schmoe?"

"He was simply attempting to wake you up for me, Douglas," Mr. Puz informed his savage-looking student in a calm, almost taunting tone of voice. "It seems to have worked."

"What the heck did you want me woken up for…_Puz_?" Doug fumed. The class twittered at the name. It was too hard not to.

"Calm down, Mr. McQuaid. I merely wanted to ask you what your perceptions were of the relationship between the narrator and Florence in _The Good Soldier_."

Doug, being a cop, never did the homework and thus, had no idea what the Puz was talking about. And being Doug, the only decent way to handle this situation by not taking the all-too-easy way out was making something up.

"Well, lets see…" he trailed off, thinking. After he felt that his pause went on for too long, he continued, "The narrator is just this laid-back sorta guy. He doesn't want to cause no harm to nobody, so he just sits back and lets Florence do whatever she wants. Florence is just this crazy broad who just thinks its okay to throw the narrator's good intentions back in his nice guy face, so she just goes around, prancin' off with these other guys without any consideration for the narrator. Meanwhile, the narrator is dying a little on the inside everytime Florence opens her tactless trap so at long last, he just gives up."

He sat back with a smug look on his face. There was nothing quite like channeling his past with Dorothy and stretching the truth just a tad to get his day started. But he didn't quite understand why Puz-o-rama was looking at him that way with his ugly jaw practically hitting the floor.

"What?" he finally asked.

"That…that was almost correct."

Doug made a mental note to read _The Good Soldier_ when he had some free time on his hands.

..,But at this moment, his partner, brother, what ever the hell they were this time, was barging through the classroom door.

"Yo, Puz," Tommy greeted the infamously bad-named teacher with a smile and smack of his gum. "Can I borrow my brother for a mo?"

"Mo?" Mr. Puz asked dryly. "Mr. McQuaid, is it much too difficult for you to speak correctly? To say words in their entirety?"

Tommy McQuaid stroked his chin, a thoughtful look on his baby face. A strand of his dark hair fell out from underneath his bandana and into his eyes, and he casually flipped it to the side. The girls giggled. The boys felt their intestines turn green with envy.

"Well, _Mr._ Puz," Tommy began. He stepped backwards to the teacher's desk and lifted himself onto it with the kind of nonchalance the other boys (and the teacher himself) could only dream of. After a quick, blind roaming of the hands, young Tommy found a shiny red apple and throwing caution to the wind, bit into it. Mr. Puz's eyes narrowed as the boy chewed loudly and tauntingly- obnoxiously.

"Well?" Mr. Puz prompted, trying to keep his temper in check.

"Well," Tommy conceded, cocking his head to the side, glancing at the mutilated apple in his hand with the kind of wonder a small child would have before turning the same expression to the ill-titled Puz. "Is it much too difficult, Mr. Puz, for you to not be a pretentious bastard? You're teaching remedial English for crying out loud!"

That didn't sit well with Susan Livingston's classmates. It didn't exactly sit well with Susan, either, but she found herself too preoccupied with the anger she was feeling over the apple to focus on the anger she was feeling over Tommy McQuaid's self-proclaimed witticism. She loved _The Good Soldier._ So much, that she shared it with her mother and her father after dinner the night before. To quote the novel, it was the saddest story she had ever heard. Her mother suggested that she show Mr. Puz her appreciation for his chosen curriculum by giving him a nice, red, juicy apple as a gift. Susan always followed her mother's advice.

That apple had not been for Tommy McQuaid.

"Go to Principal Polanski's office!" Mr. Puz bellowed through the mayhem that had followed Tommy's remark. There was paper being thrown, angry feet stomping, fists flying through the air. "That means you, McQuaids!"

"I didn't do nothin'!" Doug McQuaid protested.

"Et tu, Brute!" Tommy yelled, a laugh in his voice as he shoved his brother out the door. "See ya around, kids!"

More paper was thrown. A book was thrown, too, but it met its destination against the door that was slammed right before it had the chance to make it through. The McQuaids were free to live another day, the Jump Street undercover cops free to go over whatever minimal information they had absorbed on that hazy high school afternoon.

And as they left, to reconvene in the boy's restroom, their classmates were free to sit and simmer with their adolescent animosity and angst. It was the day after Marty Normick's untimely demise and everyone was a suspect. They just didn't know it yet.

* * *

TBC... 


End file.
